Love by the Stroke of Midnight

as her parents had been wont to say whenever a child had asked for something they didn’t approve of, ate money. Did they want x, y or z, or not to freeze? Sometimes it had been a close-run thing, especially when the want in question was wet suits to play in the loch, or skis to spend a sunny winter’s day at the nearest ski slope.
They’d got both of course, eventually, and had a reasonably warm room each. But the age of the castle and the fact it was a listed building meant draughts always found a way to get in.
She dressed in warm, lined trousers, a thermal T-shirt and fleecy top and slid her feet, covered in arctic-weight socks, into fur-lined slippers. As ever at home, cosy not dressy was the order of the day unless it was a special occasion. That was two nights away so she could leave her finery in the wardrobe and opt for comfortable, warm and no chilly body bits. Even then, for her birthday outfit she’d checked if she could get a thermal vest under her dress.
She could.
Halfway down the stairs the lights flashed, and she rolled her eyes. If Baird had been about she would have blamed him. A stupid prank he’d pulled for years, usually accompanied with a woo hoo through a rolled-up newspaper. Maybe it was time her parents got a loan or a grant and had the lighting overhauled. Flickering lights and sockets that flashed when you put certain things in them couldn’t be safe, surely?
“Depends.”
Before she’d formed a caustic reply to Cyril, and convinced herself she was going loopy, Marcail heard footsteps behind her. She ignored them. Ever since she was a child the castle was the only place she would admit to hearing things the rest of the family took for granted. Over the years she’d stopped protesting the family were imagining things, that they couldn’t hear, see or know whatever they insisted was correct, and instead Marcail had kept a careful silence. Then she would roll her eyes when later when whatever they had insisted had happened was corroborated. So someone had told them in confidence or whatever? Nothing to brag about.
If she were honest, none of them bragged. They might mention something that was subsequently proved to be true, but never had anyone said ‘I told you so’.
“’Why don’t you believe, Marcail? Is it so hard to open your mind a bit further? After all, you’ve let me in at last.”
“And I’m beginning to think that was a mistake,” she muttered as she stood on the half-landing and contemplated the polished, curving wooden banister. “Keep your word and stop it already.”
“Sorry.”
“So you should be.” She ran her hand over the round finial at the top of the bannister. For some reason there wasn’t one at the bottom, the wood just curved almost in a circle over the last newel post. Dammit I must stop answering out loud.
“I like it.”
“You bloody would.”
The bannister was right in front of her, mocking, daring her. Should she?
Why not?
With a triumphant whoop, she put her bum on the balustrade and lifted her feet in the air. The slide down to the ground floor was as fantastic as it had been when she was a child. Or indeed the year before.
“Some things never change.” Her dad walked out of the lounge and caught her as she jumped down at the end. “Just as well I decided not to put a finial back there. Welcome home, love. It’s been far too long.”
“Was there one there once, then?” Marcail asked as she hugged him tightly. He was correct, it had been far too long. Roddy had hated coming to the island, so her visits had got less and less frequent. Not that he’d been invited very often. His antipathy to all things Castle Bearradh had been blatantly obvious, and that included the rest of the family. Why she hadn’t waved bye-bye earlier was one of life’s big mysteries.
“A finial?” her dad said. “Oh yes, in the shape of a clansman complete with dirk in the air. Goodness knows why it was there. Damned dangerous if you ask me. I had visions of you impaling yourself on it, so I had it removed as soon as you could toddle. It’s still around somewhere, I think. Meant to be the figure of your great-however-many-grandpa who died at Culloden. There used to be another one somewhere, though for the life of me I can’t remember where.”

Chapter Three
“At the top, but it was taken down when you were a child, Ruari,” a new, though recognisable voice, said. “Due to a row over who should take a service of remembrance for those who died in the support of the Jacobite cause. My ancestor thought it should be him, yours disagreed. They had a wee bit of a stramash, and the upshot was two close friends of many years became estranged. The service was conducted over on the mainland, nowhere near here or my family’s seat, by a vicar who was known to call the Jacobites heathens, and from then on any service was in small groups.”
Marcail tensed, and her dad stared at her worriedly before he looked up at the newcomer. “Ah, Paden,” he said easily. “All set for the ceilidh on Samhain? Got your story sorted?”
Story? Her birthday… “Ceilidh?” she queried. “I thought it was just a family dinner.”
“It is, love, in the storytelling manner. Just us. Plus Paden. He’s got a part to play in it.”
Did her dad sound annoyed or defensive? It was hard to tell. Whichever, it sounded and felt wrong for whatever was happening to be on her birthday. Birthday celebrations were sacrosanct in their family. A tradition of only those invited by the birthday girl or boy could attend was followed from year to year. Marcail bit her lip to stop hurried, unhappy words from spilling over and forced a smile. “New tradition then,” she said lightly, and wondered why a